A Rural Affair

so surrounded by a mob. The horses stood steaming, withers heaving, glad of the respite from galloping, and as they tossed their heads and their bits jangled, it seemed to me redolent of the jangle and click of the tricoteuse.

In a matter of moments, anger had replaced shock around me. How could someone? One of the children perhaps, but no, they’d all been through the Pony Club, knew how to behave. And most children were escorted. And to dig a grave … No, no, unthinkable, it must have been an adult, they stormed. But what a craven one. Word spread to the back of the field and I saw Polly and Grant and crew stop their laughter as their jaws dropped in horror. In that moment I also saw Emma Harding’s hard little grey eyes come round to seek mine. I met them, but only briefly. I turned away, trembling. Then, as I slowly raised my head, it was to see her ride across to talk to the master. To Sam.

The minutes ticked by. Angie was being sweet now, offering me her hip flask, perhaps feeling guilty for her earlier outburst, but I couldn’t tell her now, could I? Because why hadn’t I owned up immediately? Suddenly all the prisons in all the world sprang to mind, the convicts within staring out at me, gripping the bars, plaintive eyes saying: you see? That’s why we’re here. Because something happened and we didn’t own up. But accidents do happen, terrible ones – hit and runs, lashing out at the wife in an argument. Of course we didn’t mean it, but this is where we end up, this is how it happens. I nearly fell off my horse.

The whipper-in, the telephonic messenger who’d found the hound, arrived back. He ignored us and swept on, his mouth set in a grim line; he headed towards the hounds, who were at a distance to the rest of the field on the brow of the hill. We saw him canter steadily up to Mark the huntsman, all alone, still working his hounds, still drawing the covert. The last to know. As the message was conveyed, I saw Mark put his hand over his eyes, and with that gesture I knew I’d hurt someone very badly. One of the terrier men, on a quad bike, we heard, had picked up the hound, Peddler, and was taking it back to the kennels. Meanwhile we carry on. The show must go on.

We set off at a lick, and since we’d pretty much exhausted this neck of the wood, were off to the next valley apparently, having ridden almost a full circle. Sure enough, from our vantage point on the hill I could see the trailers and lorries parked in a field below. One or two women with children on lead reins were peeling off, saying a cheery goodnight, and I peeled with them, earning a relieved smile from Angie and even a ‘Well done! Not easy, your first hunt.’

Oh, she was sweet now. Felt guilty, perhaps, for briefly not being a friend. For snapping. And of course I forgave her that; we all snapped in the heat of the moment. But what about my own, much bigger moment? Would anyone forgive me that? If only I’d owned up. They would have been shocked and horrified, naturally; but would eventually have forgiven me. Not now, though. Not half an hour later, I thought, feeling sick to my stomach as I rode back down the zigzag track to the Home Farm beside Sam’s house. The two chattering women I’d ridden silently back with headed for their trailer, tossing me a breezy farewell, and I managed at least to respond.

My breath was very shallow as I rode on alone. I thought I’d got to the age when I wouldn’t find out any more about myself. Interesting, then, that I had, and it wasn’t good.

Dad, Jennie and the kids were huddled by the lorry, sheltering from the wind which had picked up, together with a jolly band of foot followers. Dan was there, I noticed, on the other side of the field, talking to a couple of local farmers, Angus too, looking rather splendid in tweeds. Quite a few people had dogs on leads, including Leila in her huge plastic collar. They’d followed for quite a while, Dad and Jennie told me as I rode up. Great fun, but exhausting; wished they’d taken the car.

‘But well done you!’ they cried, as if I was the conquering hero returning, as I finally slid off the wretched, sweaty horse and handed him thankfully to Dad.

‘You did brilliantly!’ Jennie told me, her eyes shining, one arm circling my shoulders as she gave me a hearty squeeze. ‘Did you have a good day?’

‘I’m so proud of you, love,’ said Dad, beaming and slapping my back. ‘I knew you could do it!’

‘We saw you jump, Mummy!’ Clemmie leaped into my arms. ‘You jumped a hedge and nearly came off and your face was so funny – like this.’ She made a terrified face, and I managed to raise a smile. ‘And then you jumped a ditch and said the f word, and there was a shouty man who said, “Bloody woman!” cos you went in front of him!’

‘Lots of shouty men, darling,’ I breathed. ‘Shouty ladies too.’

I embraced my son, who’d toddled up for a hug, his head buried in my thighs as he gripped my knees fiercely. Visiting rights, obviously; perhaps more lenient ones for women with children. Dad would bring them. Or Jennie. In new clothes I wouldn’t recognize.

The children both scampered away to join a few village kids they knew, who were also waiting for parents, kicking a ball around. Dan had joined in, big kid that he was himself. Just Dad and Jennie, then.